


Candy Canes

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Omega, Candy Canes, Flashbacks, Kid Fic, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six Christmases, and it’s the same candy canes every year.  A one-shot in the Heart ‘Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candy Canes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyprydian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyprydian/gifts).



> The third installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from , who requested Heart ‘Verse. The present-day action takes place after the events of Heart3, but is not in any way spoilery for that story. Well, except for the idea that John and Sherlock are still together, but I’ve been promising a happy ending so this should not be much of a surprise.
> 
> Spaces still available; [please leave a prompt if you’d like](http://azriona.livejournal.com/853261.html)! (Also, my husband is likely to request Thomas the Train/Lightning McQueen, and if nothing else, you can do a good turn by saving me from that fate.)

_An entire store of candy, but the only thing his father ever brought home was candy canes at Christmas._

_“Oh, James, really,” said John’s mother, exasperated and indulging all at once, but James Watson hooked them on the wreathes and the banister, left them on every flat surface and in between the sofa cushions._

_“Only one or two,” said James, but the candy canes had a way of replicating themselves, doubling and tripling in number until the house was full of them._

_Ten-year-old John watched the twinkling lights reflect in the cellophane wrapping, and thought it was the most magical thing of all._

* 

“Those are the same candy canes,” said Sherlock from his armchair. He pulled the violin from his chin and frowned at John near the mantel. “John. John.” 

“Hmm?” John paused in his decoration. The flat was already decked in pine branches and ribbon, and a rather garishly decorated angel courtesy of Emily and her appallingly non-artistic nursery teacher. She was laughing upstairs at something; John glanced toward the door, wondering if he should remind her of the importance of indoor voices. 

“Those candy canes,” insisted Sherlock. “Please don’t tell me those are the same ones you’ve used every year since the Christmas party.” 

“I…” John looked down at the brightly colored candy cane in his hand. 

* 

_Brown and dim and yellow with the light from the single bulb on his desk, anyone walking into the little bedsit would never have realized it was Christmas. John would step outside into the wintery cold of London in December, see the gaily colored lights and the people laughing, hear the twinkling notes of carols played over tinny loudspeakers and smell the scents of cinnamon and pine, and he hated going back to the little brown room where nothing happened, where the blank walls and the dark corners reminded him that nothing would happen to him._

_He was poor as anything, but when he saw the box of candy canes sitting on the counter at the off-license, he couldn’t help it. His mother had loved candy canes, decorated up the house with them, popped them in hot chocolates on cold nights for he and Harry to stir. He and Mary had used them as swords in epic battles over the telly remote. They’d come in Christmas packages in Afghanistan, and the men had hung them from their ears, ridiculous earrings that never stayed on._

_It was only two quid, surely he could spare two quid._

_He hung the candy canes in the oddest spots in the dark little room, off the lampshade and the headboard, over the shower curtain and the doorknob. A feeble attempt at decoration, and it ought to have made him feel worse, but instead he could look at them and remember that once, life had been wonderful._

* 

“Six year old candy canes,” scoffed Sherlock. “Surely they’ve crumbled to dust by now.” 

“Some have,” admitted John. 

“Most,” sniffed Sherlock, and raised the violin again. 

* 

_Sherlock’s violin filled the flat. Bach, Wagner, Mozart, or so John assumed, because even after nearly a year of living with Sherlock, six months of sleeping together, he didn’t really know composers as well as he ought. Classical music, of course, not carols, but John had heard the strains of “Good King Wenceslas” when he came home early from a shift at the clinic, and he knew Sherlock was practicing for the party._

_The flat was nearly ready now – the lights on the mantel twinkled, there were eats laid out on the table, and a punch bowl borrowed from Mrs Hudson for drinks. Just a few friends, very quiet, but John’s stomach was twisted in knots anyway, and he pulled at his collar._

_The music stopped. “John?” asked Sherlock, his voice hesitant, anxious…hopeful._

_“Bit tight, that’s all,” said John, and he turned to smile at Sherlock. “I’m fine. Cool as a cucumber.”_

_Sherlock nodded briskly, sharply, and went back to his playing, turning his back. John opened a window to let in the cold evening air – it felt good on his skin, which might have been warm, but was nothing near to feverish._

_Not yet, anyway. A few more days, John thought, and then his heat would be on him. Just a little drinks party. Not a bonding reception, of course not._

_Even so. John pulled back into the flat, cooler now, and started to lay out the candy canes, smiling as he did so. Last year, in a dark and dismal flat across town…_

_The bell rang._

_“I don’t see why we had to invite anyone at all,” said Sherlock, a bit grumpily, and John laid the last candy can on the mantel._

_“Because,” he said, and brushed Sherlock arm as he passed him. “We_ can _.”_

* 

“Have you ever eaten one, John? An entire box you’ve owned for six years – have you ever actually unwrapped one to taste?” 

“That’s not why you buy candy canes, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, my mistake, thinking one purchases food for eating.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Says the man who keeps fingers in the freezers and fills the bath with feet.” 

“They probably taste like cardboard by now,” said Sherlock. 

* 

_“Let’s go out,” said Harry suddenly, sitting up on the sofa. “I can’t stand another minute in this room, I think the wallpaper is starting to move.”_

_“Harry,” groaned John, and closed his eyes again. He rubbed the baby bump under his jumper, the firm curve of it, and he felt the baby push back against his hand, as if playing a game._

_“You need the fresh air,” Harry insisted. She swung her feet to the floor and slipped them into her shoes. “And I need to stop thinking about this wallpaper.”_

_“It’s Christmas Day, Hare, nothing’s going to be open.”_

_“Chinese,” said Harry. “I thought I saw a place around the corner, we’ll go there.”_

_John winced, the sharp memory of Sherlock explaining the lower third of the door handle filling him up. “No. Not there.”_

_“Oh,” said Harry, faltering. “You…all right. Somewhere else.”_

_“There’s rolls and sandwich meat in the fridge,” said John._

_Harry’s sigh was heavy and frustrated. “John…it’s_ Christmas _. You have to…I don’t know – at least make an effort.”_

_“Why?_ Why _? Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean I can forget what I lost, Harry,” snapped John, and the baby kicked him hard in the diaphragm._

 _Harry saw his wince and brought over his jacket. “Baby’s on my side. Two against one, Johnny. Up.”_

_John slipped on the jacket, donned the scarf and the hat, and shoved his hands in the pockets for his gloves._

_His fingers found the thin, smooth stick, and he pulled it out, thinking he’d found a pen._

_Instead, he held a candy cane, and he stared at the bit of candy for a long moment while Harry finished getting ready to face the cold._

_“There might be something on Marylebonne,” said Harry. “Indian or something.”_

_John swallowed. “No. Chinese is fine.”_

_Harry paused, her hands still holding her scarf behind her head. “Are you sure?”_

_“Yeah,” said John, and he squeezed the candy cane tightly. “I’m fine.”_

_The baby rolled, pleased, and pushed its hands and feet up against his skin, as if trying to give him a hug from inside._

* 

“You could buy new ones,” said Sherlock, resting the bow on the strings, and John started. 

“New ones?” he echoed, still fingering the candy cane in his hand. 

“I know you persist in believing us to be near destitute, but surely we could stretch the budget to include a few quid for a box of candied sticks with hooks. If they mean so much to you.” 

* 

_Aurora Holmes was really rather ridiculous, when it came to her granddaughter. John had always assumed the mountains of boxes and clothes and toys which had arrived shortly after Emily’s birth had simply been that Emily was the sole recipient of a generation’s worth of baby supplies. This assumption had been disproved by the piles of gifts for Emily under the Christmas tree._

_“Oh, goodness,” said Mrs Hudson, quite flustered, as the procession of newly acquired goods came in from Mycroft’s car and made their way up the stairs to 221B, carried by dark-suited men in sunglasses. Mrs Hudson bounced Emily on her hip. “John…where will you put it all?”_

_“No idea,” said John. “221C still available?”_

_Mrs Hudson shook her head and when the last man had finished carrying the last box, she handed Emily back to John. “I’ll be up in just a tick with dinner,” she said, and went back into her flat. John locked the front door behind Mycroft’s minions, and went upstairs to view the damage, only to find that the men had somehow, through the magic of simply being employed by Mycroft, found space for nearly everything. The toys were stacked near the windows, the books for John were shelved over the mantel, and John didn’t see the new clothes, which meant that surely they were already upstairs in Emily’s closet._

_“Whatever he’s paying them, it’s not enough,” John told Emily, who was squirming to get down and explore her new acquisitions, and he set her down on the carpet. She scampered over to the toys, and immediately began to disassemble the pile with shrieks of glee._

_Mrs Hudson brought up a roast, with potatoes and carrots. Rolls and string beans, sausage dressing and cranberry sauce, and fresh salad, cheese, crackers._

_“You didn’t cook all this?” asked John, somewhat alarmed, and Mrs Hudson laughed._

_“No, dearie, not all of it. The roast and carrots and potatoes, of course – the rest is left over from yesterday. Would Emmy like a bit of sweet potato, do you think?”_

_“Might do. Here, let me—“_

_“No, dearie, just go fetch her, I’m nearly done.”_

_John left Mrs Hudson to her fussing, and went into the sitting room, which had gone strangely quiet in the last few minutes. It didn’t take long to realize why._

_In the center of the room, surrounded by the scattered remains of blocks, books, dolls, crumpled wrapping paper and shredded tissues, overturned shoes, and a single sock, lay Emily, fast asleep on her back. John went still, watching the tissue flutter with her breath, and when he saw the candy cane clutched in her chubby fist, he couldn’t help the smile._

_“The darling,” murmured Mrs Hudson behind him, and she tugged on John’s arm. “Cover her up with a blanket, she’ll be all right. Come and eat dinner, John.”_

_John kissed his fingers, and touched Emily’s hair, before he did exactly that._

* 

“I don’t need new candy canes, Sherlock,” said John, and he slipped the candy cane into the stocking hanging on the mantel. “These are just fine.” 

A sniff from the chair. “Honestly, John, I’m amazed they’re still in one piece. Mostly. Apart from providing clutter, are they useful for anything at all?” 

“You’d be surprised,” said John, as the smile crept onto his face. 

* 

_Six weeks shy of two years, but Emily knew how to direct her adults._

_She instructed Mrs Hudson on the proper method of hitting her toy xylophone with a candy cane to produce the best sound. She gave Greg the maracas to shake, and decorated his ears with two more candy canes. Anna, curled on the couch under a blanket, was given the instrument of honor – a drum, and a candy cane to use as a drumstick._

_The adults laughed and played their instruments, unable to say no to the demanding toddler, who wouldn’t have taken it for an answer, anyway. She steamrolled ahead, blowing on her train whistle as her orchestra played a discordant tune. Emily’s tune, and John grinned._

_“Daddy,” scolded Emily, and John sat up, holding the tambourine he hadn’t been shaking._

_“Sorry, Em,” he said, and obediently joined in the chorus._

* 

Sherlock snorted, and narrowed his eyes. John recognized the look, and began to grin. 

“No, don’t tell me,” said Sherlock quickly. “Box of twenty-four candy canes, there’s what, perhaps ten left, in varying stages of decay. Perhaps two out of the entire box that are left whole and unscathed. You drag them out every year and place them around the flat. It’s not about the easy access to sugar; Emily barely notices them anymore…” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” said John. 

“She certainly doesn’t consider them edible. When a child doesn’t consider candy edible, John, you must reassess its categorization as _candy_.” 

“It’s not about them being candy, Sherlock.” 

“Then we’ll just rename them Dust-Collecting Canes, shall we?” 

John shook his head. “You honestly don’t realize, do you?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and shut it again. 

* 

_“I’ll just be a mo,” said John to Sherlock. “You’ll be all right?”_

_“Of course,” said Sherlock imperiously, impatiently, mind half on the violin he tuned. “Mrs Hudson’s flat is hardly Siberia.”_

_“Back in a bit, munchkin,” John said to Emily, who was busily setting up tea for her dolls, and Emily glanced worriedly at Sherlock, before giving John a terse nod._

_Mrs Hudson’s cough had not improved in the last few hours. “I’m sorry to pull you away at Christmas,” she apologized as John checked her pulse and her temperature. “Sherlock’s first one home…”_

“Stop that,” said John, counting the beats in his head. “You should have told me, we could have come back from Surrey earlier. I don’t like to think about you alone and sick, Christmas or not.” 

_Mrs Hudson reached for a tissue and sneezed. The empty box fell to the floor, and John went to fetch another. “Is it…it’s all right upstairs, isn’t it?”_

_“It’s fine,” John assured her. “A bit odd, I don’t think Sherlock quite knows what to make of it. You remember the party.”_

_Mrs Hudson laughed, and coughed. “Like a cat caught in a rainstorm, but determined to make the best of it.”_

_“And Emily loves Christmas carols,” said John, and they both giggled. “Get some rest now, I’ll come back after Emily’s in bed. And tomorrow when you’re feeling better, we’ll open presents.”_

_“Poor Sherlock,” mused Mrs Hudson. “The horror of Christmas extended a few days just for a sick old lady.”_

_“He’ll survive. But Emily will be grateful forever.”_

_John heard the music halfway up the stairs. It took a moment to register._

When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas eve  
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me 

_John paused on the stairs, almost surprised that Sherlock even knew the song. It played on the radio every ten minutes, but this was Sherlock, who barely realized they owned a radio._

_John went as quietly as he dared up the rest of the stairs, hoping to catch them unawares. He wasn’t disappointed._

_Sherlock sat beside the tree, the violin under his chin. Emily curled in his crossed legs, on her back, looking up as he played the violin._

We kissed on a corner  
Then danced through the night 

_John leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched them. Emily twirled a candy cane in her fingers, her small face alight with happiness, and Sherlock, eyes closed, played as if the Queen herself was there to listen._

* 

“I don’t want new ones,” said John. “I bought these for two quid from the off-license the year I came back from Afghanistan. They were the only bit of decoration in that bedsit, and they were swallowed up in it, small as it was.” 

“A memory,” said Sherlock, and frowned. “A memory of when you were alone.” 

“But I wasn’t,” said John, looking up at last. “Because they reminded me of Christmas, of being a kid and being in love with the holiday, and that was enough to get me through it. And then I met you a few weeks later. And I was never alone after that.” 

“I left.” 

“But you left Emily behind. And then you came back.” John set the candy cane down on the mantel. “And look at us now.” 

Sherlock studied John. “Sentiment,” he said, and John laughed. 

“Sentiment,” he agreed. 

There was a crash from upstairs, and both men turned immediately to the stairs. 

“Em?” called up John. 

“Nothing,” sang Emily, and John rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll go,” he said, and rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Play your not-Christmas carols in protest, if you like.” 

“Harumph,” said Sherlock, and lifted the violin to his chin. 

_And the boys from the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay  
_ _And the bells were ringing out for Christmas day._

On the stairs, John grinned, and went cheerfully upstairs to see what havoc Emily had wrought.  


End file.
